Viscous
by Naiyad
Summary: One Shot: He pries away the layers of passionate violence which he so wanted to drink up, like juice, like orange juice, only tangier, like lime juice only redder, like tomato juice only far, far less healthy. Schuldig's pov


Authors Note: I'm not sure if the fic worked the way I wanted it to. I was aiming for borderline mentality, but I might have gone a little overboard. Hopefully, it doesn't annoy you too much. Kind readers who might have a little extra time, please leave a review and tell me if the mood worked or if it sucks. I haven't written in a while, so I know it isn't that good, but critisism is always appreciated. I don't even mind if you flame me, I just want to know what you think.

Much love,  
Ran-chan.

**Viscous**  
by: Ran Shizuka

**Standard disclaimers apply**

Schuldig walks closer to it, a demon, a lunatic, a boy, covered in blood, soaked in blood, saturated with blood. Blood in his clothes in his hair, in his eyes...

Crawford makes a clicking sound at the back of his throat but doesn't say anything. He disapproves of the mess.

It hasn't noticed them yet. In its mind echoes the frenzy he's just experienced, the excitement from the kill, from the agony of his victims faces. Schuldig drinks up every sensation it relives in its mind. He sucks it up hungrily; he likes the flavor, the tang. If the feelings were noodles, he'd slurp them all right up. One long piece of noodle made of a single strand of pasty, white, sensations. He'd slurp it all up and when he got to the end, the tail will flick itself on his nose, he'd probably get some of the spicy soup in his eye, it would probably sting a little but if his tongue was long enough he'd lick it anyway, and taste the tang mixed with tears, probably the same flavor its cheek would be if he licked it.

Maybe he should lick it.

It turns around now; red trails down its cheek, almost as if he was crying blood, like the vampires in books Schuldig read about. It looks dazed, still wallowing in sensations, but the sensations were all his own. Schuldig feels so much more sensations usually. An incoherent jumble from so many sources it was impossible to keep track. But now he could only feel the giddy undertone of his own feelings, Crawford's mild disapproval which he could ignore and the sensations radiating from it. That, and the muted thoughts of the dead.

Schuldig doesn't know silence. You can't make silent thoughts, not even the dead can. The people who wrote about silent thoughts are idiots who don't know anything, that's why they were idiots, because they don't know anyhting, but there is the muted sort of sound you hear when you stay underwater for too long and get water in your ears and you can't hear much except the sort of ringing only the dead are not ringing. It's the same sort of sound just without the ringing; the dead. Schuldig thinks about how he always seems to let his thoughts wander. He thinks about how easy it is to think about things that don't make sense and don't matter, unnecessary things, and he thinks about the sensations and it and how it looks all drenched in blood, saturated, and how it looks ready to kill again.

Schuldig enters it, strokes his fingers absently through the fuzzy mess that is its head, all tangled pieces of information and thoughts and just thousands and thousands of fragments of sensations, disjointed images, intoxicating. It's like alcohol for the mind, like booze for the mind. Schuldig likes booze. Schuldig likes the taste of its mind. It's calming down now, responding to Schuldig's mental caress. The drunk, fanatic look slowly dissipating from his eyes. Schuldig is a little reluctant to let it go away but Crawford needs to see if what little sanity is left is enough to keep him under control. That is how Crawford wants his subordinates; insane enough to go along with his plans but not so much as to rebel against him.

Schuldig understands this. He is a prime example of this and despite himself, he is proud of it.

So he caresses it. He pries away the layers of passionate violence which he so wanted to drink up, like juice; like orange juice, only tangier, like lime juice only redder, like tomato juice only far, far less healthy. And he reaches inside, pushing past the fragments of disjointed sensations and helped form a link, a memory, a connection with pain and betrayal and anguish and above all, loneliness. More sensations, only this time it's bitter, but Schuldig likes it still. And into its ear it whispers, though their still about ten feet apart, but curiously, it still feels like he is whispering into its ear and he whispers without parting his lips, without the wide, vulgar smirk falling out of place and it hears him whisper.

"Come here."

Despite the malicious look on his face, it comes. It is not afraid, fear has been long forgotten. Instead, he finds comfort in the voice that holds no comfort, and comes and buries its head in his chest, not tall enough to reach his shoulders. Its own shoulder trembles but without a sound, soundless, like he was overcome with sudden coldness and Schuldig bends down and pulls it closer, breathing in the smell he finds so intoxicating and gives its cheek a lick and likes the flavor because it was just as he had imagined it, like blood and tears, it was blood and tears but so much blood that the tears cannot dilute its color. The glorious red. Schuldig revels in the aesthetic pleasures and breathes in the scent and drinks up the sensations in its mind.

"Can we keep it?" his voice rose thick like vinegar.

"He isn't a dog Schuldig." Crawford still disapproves of the mess, but he is already relenting into the idea. He could be useful. Vicious, violent, and so young. He can still be taught so much, made so much more vicious and violent. The mess can be dealt with.

"Sure it is. It's just like a puppy." Schuldig's wide vulgar smile grew wider. He knew he was going to get what he wanted; he always got what he wanted.

"I'll name it Farfarello."

"Cute," Crawford's answer came disdainfully.

Schuldig laughs, it's almost a cackle. He stops holding the connection, the memory breaks from its consciousness. The sensations grow again, Schuldig loves the sensations, he adores it, he relishes it, like spicy noodle, like orange-lime-tomato juice. He loves the sensations.


End file.
